


The Election

by solarlotus



Category: In the Loop (2009) & The Thick of It, The Last Kingdom (TV), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: British Politics, British political AU, Finan is Malcolm Tucker, Finan is angry and Scottish, Gen, General Election, Political AU, Uhtred is leader of the Opposition, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25319719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarlotus/pseuds/solarlotus
Summary: Modern British political AU. Finan is the Malcolm Tucker character from Thick of It/In the Loop. He's Scottish, sweary and angry, and Opposition Leader, Uhtred's Direction of Communications and general election strategy. As well as terrorising his underlings, Finan desperately wants to win power for Uhtred's Change for Britain party against Alfred's Wessex Britain party after 15 long years of opposition. But he faces party ructions and a hostile media, can they do it?
Comments: 12
Kudos: 7





	The Election

**Author's Note:**

> This may not make a lot of sense if you haven't watched Thick of It/In the Loop, which feature the infamous Malcolm Tucker, who in turn was based on Tony Blair's Director of Communications, Alastair Campbell. This fic is set in the present day, not the 00's.
> 
> Thank you to those who read the early draft for your encouragement as this was a bit out there, but I have loved writing this.

**Britain stands divided. It is five years since the referendum called by former Wessex Britain Party Prime Minister Aethelred to decide if England stands alone or with its Danish, Frisian and Frankish allies. After Aethelred’s proposal of maintaining closer continental ties ended in defeat thanks to Heasten’s collaboration with his enemies he was replaced by Alfred as Prime Minister. The Opposition party, Change for Britain was in disarray, led by the radical, but rudderless Guthred.**

**But now Change for Britain has a new leader, Uhtred Ragnarson, he promises fresh leadership, progressive change for ordinary people and a strong relationship with the continent. The stylish new leader is battling Alfred in a fierce General Election. The winner will take all, the loser’s political career will be over.**

**Finan is Uhtred’s Head of Communications and works from opposition HQ in London’s King’s Cross. He also directs GE strategy and all special advisors report to him.**

**Haesten waits in the wings of Wessex Britain, looking for his opportunity.**

**Ex PM Aethelred has slunk off to his executive shed in Oxfordshire to write his diaries after his disastrous referendum defeat, while his political ally and former chancellor, Aethelwold stays in the thick of it, editing London’s biggest newspaper, The Evening Standard.**

**4 weeks to Polling Day Opposition HQ, King’s Cross**

‘Shut up, you useless fuckers, polls are in!’ Finan cried above the din of the dingy office in King’s Cross. The traffic was a dull roar outside, but shutting the window was worse as the room had no air conditioning and twenty people crammed into space meant for no more than eight was unbearable even in winter. Finan now stood, waving his phone.

‘Shut the fuck up! Thank you! We have the polling from our little number cruncher,’ he nodded at Osferth who was crouched over a laptop, two desktop screens and mobile phones at a desk in the corner. ‘And we are level with the Wessex cunts!’ Finan roared, followed by a general cheer. ‘Thirty-five per cent Britain for Change, thirty-five percent Wessex fucking Britain! So, this does not mean you take your foot off the gas, unless you want my foot up your fucking arsehole, this means we stick it to those Wessex cunts the next four weeks until polling and make Uhtred Ragnarson the next British Prime Minister!’

A cheer of elation went up followed by clapping, several people were standing up, hugging and evening doing little twirls around their desks.

‘Get back to work, yous doss cunts!’ Finan barked. The revelry stopped immediately as everyone went back to their screens. ‘Sihtric, get me Laura Kuenssberg, then Peston. I want wall to wall on the six o’clock bulletins and make sure that fat fuck that’s with Uhtred at that primary school this afternoon isnae asking him any hard questions, or I’ll chop his balls off and shove them up his arse. You can quote me on that by the way.’

‘Yes,’ Sihtric said obediently.

‘And make sure my coffee isnae cold next time. Also, tell the fragrant Aethelflead to show a bit of flesh tonight.’

‘It’s a prize giving for NHS heroes,’ Hild said wearily, dumping a newspaper on Finan’s desk.

‘Exactly, every c-lister from daytime TV will be flashing some tit, make sure Uhtred gets on the front page, not some cunt from Eastenders. What is this?’ he said turning to Hild, picking up the paper.

‘Evening Standard, thought you’d like this,’ Hild smirked.

‘Haesten lined up as new Wessex leader if Alfred loses election, is it April bloody Fool’s Day? This is Aethelwold shit stirring.’

‘That wasn’t you?’ Hild asked, quirking her eyebrow.

‘Even I wouldn’t put the mad fucker in charge of the party, don’t even joke, Hild. The bastard could end up PM. He’s just a stupid haircut and bad jokes, what works on fucking quiz shows will not work in government. I doubt the fat fucker can even read.’

‘Well apparently the source is excellent.’

‘And what excellent sources do you know? Besides me?’

‘Beocca,’ Hild said smugly.

‘Jesus,’ Finan sighed, loosening his tie. ‘We’re all fucked. Still, it’ll be easier for Uhtred than Alfred at PMQs.’

‘I don’t know, people like Haesten, he’s funny.’

‘People say I’m a funny man too, they wouldnae want to face me every Wednesday.’

‘People say you’re a foul mouthed cunt, Finan,’ Hild said mildly.

‘Aye, apart from that.’

‘Anyway, where is the boy wonder?’

‘Primary school in Croydon, poor fucker.’ Finan’s phone beeped and his face clouded over. ‘Clapa! Get me Newsnight! Now! Cunts are trying to interview the constituency parties, fuck fuck fuckety fuck! What is the golden fucking rule?’ Finan bellowed at the room.

‘The party doesn’t speak to the press,’ everyone replied monotonously, keeping their heads down as they sensed Finan’s rage building.

‘Fuck’s sake, they got hold of Brida. Jaysus, someone find her and murder her for me before I do. Where the fuck is Ragnar? He was meant to be keeping the mad trot on a leash!’

‘I think he went to the White Lion at lunchtime…’ Sihtric offered in a small voice.

Finan closed his eyes, Hild knew he was imagining the horrors of a Brida interview. She and Uhtred had once been political allies, but while he had moved to the centre ground she had stubbornly clung to the old ways and her constituency party was a hot bed of radicalism Finan was dying to quash. She was exactly the sort of person the Wessex media would love to splash all over the news to discredit Uhtred’s hard won reforms.

~

Uhtred returned to the office near six, hoping to hear the six o’clock bulletins full of good news about his polling and primary school visit. Aethelflaed had gone to change for the evening’s event and he wanted to catch up with Finan. What he found was Finan and Brida screaming at each other in his office.

‘You and your kind have ruined the party!’ Brida was shouting. ‘We have no values anymore, we may as well be Wessex. Change or Wessex? How can we tell? It is all just PR!’

‘We have to get fucking elected!’ Finan shouted back. ‘These cunts control everything, how do you think all these journalists on their six figure salaries vote? You think they vote Change? You think they want us? Nae chance. So we keep our fucking mouths shut and let Uhtred talk cos they like him! We’ve been in opposition fifteen long years!’

‘You don’t want change!’

‘I work day and night for change!’

‘Hey,’ Uhtred said, walking between them. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Little Miss Numpty here spoke to Newsnight,’ Finan spat. Uhtred groaned.

‘Really? Brida!’

‘They asked, I didn’t seek them out.’

‘You know all press has to go through head office.’

‘Through him,’ Brida snarled at Finan.

‘Yes, through Finan.’

‘She even wore that fucking thing in her hair,’ Finan sighed. ‘What is it? It looks like a rat’s skull.’

‘It’s an ancient symbol of a Norse fertility goddess, I wouldn’t expect you to understand,’ Brida snapped.

‘Good, I don’t, it’s fucking mad.’

Uhtred put his head in their hands.

‘What did you say?’ Uhtred sighed.

‘That I want a Change government, it’ll be better for Britain.’

‘Did they ask you about Guthred?’

‘Might have done,’ Brida equivocated.

‘Of course they fucking did, it was probably Guthred or that cunt, that fucking arsewipe wanker Eadred who called Newsnight in the first place.’

‘What did you say about him?’ Uhtred asked calmly.

‘That he was a good man and his ideas live on,’ she said defiantly, tilting her chin up.

‘I will never be rid of him!’ Uhtred cried. ‘You know this, Brida! How could you?’

‘At least he wanted real change!’

‘And was totally incapable of delivering it. Name a single thing he achieved. Go on, name one. Besides keeping Wessex in power for over a decade. Just get out.’

Brida looked at them both with pure venom, then turned on her heel and slammed the door behind her so loudly the glass panes in the window rattled.

Finan sat on Uhtred’s desk and pulled his tie off. ‘It has been a long fucking day, my friend.’

‘Same here, children are horrible. Why don’t they warn you children are really fucking horrible.’

‘Is that why you never see your own?’

‘Must be.’ Uhtred sat in his chair and tipped his head back. ‘Can you do anything about Newsnight?’

‘Already have. But you’re not going to like it.’

‘What is it?’

‘Interview with you and Aethelflead in your beautiful fucking perfect home.’

‘Christ, I didn’t know they were so Hello Mag,’ Uhtred groaned.

‘Maitlis just wants to see where you keep your off duty tight jeans.’

‘You know she hates me.’

‘She does, but lucky for you she likes Aethelflead. And you better have Thyra there too, probably teaching Stiorra to fucking sew or something.’

‘Stiorra sew?’ Uhtred looked amazed.

‘Just tell her to fucking sew like some twatty Wessex brat and I’ll buy her a bottle of vodka.’

‘She’s sixteen.’

‘That’s why she needs me to buy her vodka.’ Finan looked at his phone again and his face lit up in a malicious grin, which Uhtred knew was a sign of something brewing.

‘What?’ Uhtred asked.

‘I may have fed Polly Toynbee the rumour about Mr Darcy in that dating movie being based on you.’

‘What?’

‘You know the twatty lawyer all women get sweaty titted over, him in the lake with the shirt and that woman, the diary woman.’

‘Bridget Jones?’

‘Yeah, yeah, the rumour is, he’s based on you,’ Finan smirked.

‘What rumour?’

‘The one I started. Now I’m getting messages about it from Susannah Reid, wants a quote. You are flattered but it’s just a coincidence. Wait until she mentions that to Piers on the sofa tomorrow, you’re going to blow up, my friend.’

‘You can’t just start unfounded rumours! People will never believe Mr Darcy is based on me,’ Uhtred cried, sounding panicked.

‘Course they will. They believed Aethelred fucked that pig.’

‘I still have a hard time believing that wasn’t your doing.’

‘I wish it had been, but it seems that little twat really did like to stick his tiny cock in a dead pig at whatever posh wankers society he was in at uni.’

They both laughed. ‘He probably did,’ Uhtred agreed. ‘I’m not having anything to do with this though, you make sure nobody asks me about it. This is your game,’ he warned.

‘And I will enjoy playing.’

Uhtred smiled with resignation and got up. ‘Call me tomorrow and let me know when I have to go through with this Newsnight nightmare. I’ll break it to Aethelflead in public so she’ll have time to calm down. You know she hates people in our home.’

‘Blame the little rat skull bint not me. Oh, one last thing, Skade was calling for a coalition with you again this morning.’

‘Have you given the press a line?’

‘Fuck off and stick her coalition up her overused fanny… was the gist of it.’

‘Good, I don’t need the Scots rocking the boat at this stage. I mean we will talk to them, but don’t tell anyone yet.’

‘Uhtred, she’s off her tartan fucking tits.’

‘I thought you liked Scotland?’

‘I hate Scotland, what gave you the idea I like Scotland? I just prefer it to this fucking place, crawling with the pissing English. How you cunts ever came to dominate this island is one of the great mysteries of all time. You know Sihtric can barely get me a hot cup of coffee?’

Uhtred shook his head at the angry Scotsman before him. ‘You’re not allowed to terrorise Sihtric.’

‘I don’t terrorise anyone, everyone loves me. You should see the postman at Christmas, breaks his ball sack delivering to me.’

Uhtred rolled his eyes and cuffed Finan around the head as he stood up. ‘Go home before midnight,’ Uhtred said before leaving.

‘You too, send my coolest regards to Aethelflaed.’

‘She still hates you too!’

**A week until Polling Day, Uhtred’s House, North London**

‘Finan!’ Uhtred screamed from the top of the stairs. ‘I need Finan now!’

He was wearing his underwear and a half buttoned up blue shirt, there were three TVs playing in the house, BBC in the bedroom, ITV in the kitchen and Sky News in the living room and every one was running with the same story. Alfred had been deposed and Haesten was the new leader of Wessex Britain, aided by an advisor called Erkenwald, who Finan referred to as the ‘snidest little shit this side of my arsehole’.

Aethelflead was already dressed when Finan crashed through the front door without knocking. ‘How did you get in?’ she squealed in shock.

‘You have a police guard, I told him to let me in or I’d break his fucking balls.’

‘Uhtred, are the police meant to listen to Finan?’

‘Yes,’ came Uhtred’s reply. ‘Have you seen this shit, is this real?’

‘According to my sources, which are fucking exemplary,’ Finan said, helping himself to Aethelflead’s freshly made coffee. ‘It’s true. Alfred out, that fat cunt in.’

‘This changes everything,’ Uhtred cried. ‘A completely different opponent. Alfred’s a stiff, awkward arsehole who says his worst sin is making crop circles … to fucking Haesten!’

‘Don’t worry, I have a whole new plan.’

‘What?’

‘I planned it in the taxi. Sihtric, Hild and Osferth will be here in ten minutes.’

‘It’s six am on Sunday morning Uhtred!’ Aethelflead cried, splashing her coffee in outrage. ‘Fuck, fuck.’

‘And he’s on Marr in three hours. Hey, have you got any of those croissants? Not almonds, I hate almonds on croissants.’

‘Are you allergic?’

‘No, they’re just wrong.’

‘Pity,’ Aethelflead sniped.

‘Haven’t you got human rights to attend to?’

‘Uhtred has human rights too, you seem to think normal working practices don’t apply to you, yet you spend all day sending out lines about working time directives and workers’ rights.’

‘Listen, sweetheart, I am not human right now, I am a machine, no I am an animal, a political gladiator pitted against the great beast fighting for our fucking lives. I don’t have a life, human or otherwise.’

Aethelflead turned on her heel at that and slammed the door.

‘She’ll get us the croissants?’ Finan asked as she left and he and Uhtred sat at the dining room table, the TV still blaring the epic decision in the next room. They could hear Aethelwold’s unbearably smug voice declaring his support for the new leader, despite his well known antipathy towards him. Uhtred groaned.

‘Oh, and there’s this,’ Finan said, slapping a copy of the Sunday Mirror on the table, the headline screaming _Ragnarson meets Ubba, Secret Talks Revealed!_

‘Christ, that’s the fucking Guthrudians. You know, I really think they want to see Wessex in power forever. United! We said we would be united!’

‘Oh, I’ll find the little shit who leaked this and have their balls for fucking snooker practice.’

‘Why shouldn’t I meet Ubba anyway? He was PM for ten years! It doesn’t make me a raving Ubbite to have dinner with the man once. And it was six months ago.’

‘What do we say, never reason with Guthrudians, continental separatists and women.’

Uhtred laughed. ‘You can’t say the last one, we’re a progressive party.’

‘Women we’re shagging.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Talking of which, Haesten has a zipper problem, as we all know. I’ve briefed his six known children and have Osferth searching the web for any other love children, abortions, mistresses that aren’t on record or subject to court order. Then we publish the court orders. Hild will compile a list of his lies and broken promises, political. Aethelflead will do dodgy business and financial dealings and Sihtric will whore his pretty little face around every contact in his phone and tell them he is a joke who couldn’t be trusted to piss out a campfire.’

‘I can’t believe they’d change so close to an election, it’s audacious.’

‘It’s foolish, rash and hot headed. We need cool, calm leadership. That’s you. And as for Ubba just tell them it was a group dinner.’

‘No it wasn’t.’

‘There was me, your wives, Eadith, his nephew, that’s seven people, Uhtred. A group, do you need the UN fucking assembly?’

‘Fine.’

‘The initial briefings will be ready by eight-thirty, you need to read fast. But for fuck’s sake read them because he won’t and he’s not like Alfred, you can get him on detail. Just don’t let that insolent fucking bald twat Marr shout you down. In fact, I’m gonna call the little tosser and remind him who’ll be getting fucking access if he does his usual Wessex arse licking. Four percent ahead!’

Finan pumped his fist and scrolled through his phone, readying himself to turn his ire on Marr.

‘And one last thing, put your fucking trousers on, Uhtred.’

**9.55pm, Polling Day, Opposition HQ, Kings Cross**

‘Have you heard anything?’ Sihtric asked Hild, hopping from foot to foot.

‘Nothing official,’ she replied tensely.

Sihtric looked to Osferth hunched over his screens, scrolling through them, eyes wide. He had been awake since three am and was starting to acquire a slightly manic look.

‘Twitter says there was a good turnout among the young,’ Sihtric said.

‘I told you ignore twitter, Wessex voters don’t say, ohhh I voted Wessex Britain on social media. We’ve been there before. Look, it’s just a couple of minutes.’

‘Have you seen Finan?’

‘In with Eadith.’ Sihtric nodded towards Uhtred’s office. Sihtric was convinced Eadith had given him a tranquiliser mid-afternoon as he had calmed down significantly and even nodded off in a chair, but since seven he’d been a manic ball of energy. Uhtred was at the count in his constituency in North London, and King’s Cross was packed to the rafters with staff, desperate to be amongst their own for the news they’d waited their lives for, or yet another crushing blow.

‘Turn the fucking TV up!’ Finan barked, emerging from the office, someone obeyed and Aethelwold’s voice filled the room. Everyone was now crowded around the biggest TV which was above Finan’s desk, the others silently played different news channels, all the same story, all awaiting the official exit poll for the General Election at ten o’clock.

‘…of course, if Uhtred were to take office it would be a very radical programme of government and a realignment with our European neighbours. But I still think Heasten has a good chance, Wessex will get a good bounce from his appointment and the polls are within the margin of error.’

‘Not Survation,’ Jeremy Vine countered. ‘They had Change seven percent ahead.’

‘But if you look at the average, I mean Tuesday’s You Gov poll was close.’

‘Is four percent close? Anyway, I’m going to have to stop you there. We’ll be back with Aethelwold and Guthrum later for full analysis of the results, but it is almost ten o’clock-’

‘Get on with it you spavined cunt!’ Finan yelled, a sheen on sweat on his forehead.

‘-we hand over to David Dimbleby for the exit poll, tell us about the poll, David.’

‘We know about the fucking poll!’ Finan screamed to cheers from the room, the tension at boiling point. ‘Give us your fucking exit poll. I’m gonnae punch that cunt, I’m gonnae wrap his fucking balls round his neck…’

Eadith grabbed Finan’s arm as the screen cut to Big Ben and the ten chimes of the clock rang out across the room. There was now silence as they waited, people clutched one another, Hild hid her face in Sihtric’s shoulder. Dimbleby was still talking.

Finan felt as if he would be sick. He had been sick already this evening and he would be sick again. It was going to be like the last time, the time before that and the time before that, the time before that. The crushing blow of blue filling the screen, the mini parliament filling up with little blue cubes and the red cubes shrinking away, numbers falling.

‘…that means Change for Britain have a projected majority of one hundred and six. That is based on our exit poll, the results aren’t in yet, but that would make Uhtred Ragnarson the new Prime Minister with a landslide majority,’ Dimbleby finished as Uhtred’s face filled the screen and the red cubes filled up the green benches of the virtual parliament on screen.

Finan watched as everyone erupted into cheers and shouts of joy. He stood frozen, then looked at his phone, messages were now flashing up by the second, _one hundred and six, we did it, congratulations._

In one leap Finan was atop his desk screaming, his fists in the air, tears streaming down his face. They fucking did it.


End file.
